


Dreamcatcher

by abstractsta



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cas needs sleep, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Season/Series 12, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-09
Updated: 2017-08-09
Packaged: 2018-12-13 05:53:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11753415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abstractsta/pseuds/abstractsta
Summary: Both Dean and Castiel try to navigate through endless nightmares with each other's help. Then Dean tells a story.





	Dreamcatcher

**Author's Note:**

> If you haven't seen s12, there's a huge spoiler here. Just so you know.

Having woken up refreshed, despite the iffy sheets in the motel room, next to an equally perky Cas, they'd gotten dressed and were on their way out to hunt some coffee, the sight of the Deanow hoop, covered with thin strings of leather, sinewy strands crisscrossing within to form an intricate web, a brown bead seated in the center, stopped Dean in his tracks and sent a shiver through his spine.

Leaning back into Cas, who had been standing behind him, Dean closed his eyes and lost himself into the security of Cas's embrace, remembering the times in their not-so-distant past that weren't all that pleasant.

♥

It was back when Dean's recurring nightmares, the excruciating ones, where Cas was run through by Lucifer's blade became less frequent, the ones where Cas turned into a lifeless body, forever beyond the veil, right out of Dean's reach, beyond any help, finally abated, only to turn into the limbo of infinite terror of waking up into another nightmare.

It went on, over and over again, Dean finding a fleshless skull resting next to him where Castiel's sleep-softened features should have been, the apparition grinning a dead smile which tore even at the mind of a man lifted from Hell, so close to waking up but helplessly unable to, teetering on the brink where grown men were but helpless babies again, afraid of the dark and finding their worst fears staring at them if they dared to open their eyes.

Short of invading Dean's dreams uninvited, Cas had gone beyond measure to banish the devils dwelling in Dean's mind.

Whenever Dean had startled violently from his sleep, terrified, whimpering incoherent words among which Cas could make heartbreaking promises of vengeance, Cas had been there.

His efforts to claim Dean into his arms for sense of safety, to pacify, to _remind_ , were forcefully swatted away, the wisps and tendrils of pure evil coiled around Dean's soul momentarily blinding Dean from the angel's love.

So Cas had waited, counting deep breaths designed to calm Dean's panic, hands smoothing his side gently, guiding him back to the waking world.

Night after night, Cas waited for the shuddering, deep gasp of breath distinguishing between this world and that, and begun to guide him the rest of the way on the path which lead his beloved back to him.

He never embraced Dean, not after the first realization that for Dean, it was not Castiel who held him in the chasm of between dream and wakefulness. Cas did not take Dean's hand, or touch his face, for the time Dean had violently balked from his touch, as it wasn't his Cas touching him.

But Castiel persisted, having found that the broad, firm strokes on Dean's flank worked enough to get the man to open his eyes blearily, confused and scared.

So Cas laid on their bed smoothing concentric circles into Dean's skin. And breathed.

Warm, living breaths, each one convincing Dean further that he was safe, that it was Cas, for there weren't a ghost in existence which would waste time to give life, instead of taking it.

As Dean's tense form relaxed, if only a little, Cas moved his hand along Dean's arm, testingly taking Dean's hand and brushing his lips against the skin, searching and finding small, smooth lines of old scars, and bestowing a soft kiss on each.

Deep breaths to show Dean the rest of the way, assured by the wistful gasp of faint realization that it was " _Cas_ ," alive and _here,_ Cas carefully, unthreatening, mindful, pressed his lips to Dean's temple, silently agreeing that it was him, wordlessly convincing that it would never be anyone else, and slowly moved to kiss Dean's eyelid lightly before Dean could open his eyes.

Dean turned to face Cas and gathered him close, wrapped him into his gratitude, and after the final trembles of his horror passed, his leg thrown over Cas's, Dean slept the rest of the night peacefully, knowing, that Cas would ward off the Devil when the bastard would emerge again.

It had taken time,but the nightmares had passed.

But when Dean's terror stopped altogether, it was when Cas's nightly torture only begun.

Whether it was a mere coincidence, or if the demons that had bedeviled Dean for months found more fertile, open ground in the convoluted mind of the angel, it made not a spit of difference, when Cas woke up in the middle of the night, trashing, his throat constricted around a desperate cry, and his chest covered in cold sweat.

Panicking, grasping the sheets frantically, Cas was only pacified when he found the alive form breathing peacefully next to him, and sleepily tightened his hold around Cas when his fingers dug into Dean's blessedly warm skin.

After a fortnight of sleepless nights, once Cas was reluctant to even try closing his eyes in fear of finding himself carrying Dean's lifeless corpse out of a barn, the sole victim of the wrath of a restless spirit that got its icy fingers around Dean's heart before Sam or Castiel could intervene.

In the light of a bedside lamp in the small hours, when they sat talking in bed, Cas's face buried in the crook of Dean's neck, his words were imprinted into the man's skin as he tried to formulate his nightmares into speech. Yet, eventually, inevitably, Castiel's words caught in his throat, as if speaking of his own demons was recklessly tempting fate.

Knowing, understanding perhaps better than anyone else ever could, Dean cupped Cas's face and saw the remnants of his own fears in the tired resignation in his eyes. "I once heard a story," Dean whispered softly, pulling Cas's head to rest on his shoulder, shifting their covers to keep in their shared warmth.

As Cas wrapped his arm around Dean's waist with an encouraging mumble, tossing a leg over his as if to sleep, Dean kissed the top of Cas's head, gathering his thoughts, and continued, digging his fingers into Cas's hair; "It started with a hoop of strength and unity, made of Deanow, given to the human kind by the spirits which roam the earth and inhabit the trees and rock, even the seas."

"I hope they're nice spirits."

Dean could hear the exhausted smile in Cas's voice, a rush of tenderness settling pleasantly into his stomach at the sound. "They are. Good spirits. And not the kind that come in bottles ."

"Oh, alright then. Go on," Cas scooted lower on the bed, his head on Dean's chest, and brought Dean's hand up to play with his fingers.

"To fight the good spirits, the evil ones-"

"I knew it..."

"The evil ones," pointedly ignoring Cas's remark, Dean only began to massage Cas's scalp, "saw the night as _their_ reign, and angered by the gift given to human kind, these assholes filled the night air with bad dreams, destroying the strength of the good spirits and banged the fuck out of the peace and unity, until everyone became weak and bleak and disheartened."

"Sounds about right."

"Shuddup,” Dean flicked at Cas's ear gently. ”It's storytime.”

Cas nuzzled Dean's chest and sighed contentedly, closing his eyes with a hum.

”Where was I... Right, so everything had gone to shit in the dusky world of night, but the hoop of Deanow had a spirit of its own, and when he saw what was taking place, it came forth, and gave the men a spider, a bead, and soft feathers."

"How maddeningly unhelpful."

"The spider," Dean tugged a strand of Cas's hair lightly, earning a small chuckle in return, "quickly wove a fucking _beautiful_ web across the hoop, and dragged the bead in the middle." With his fingers traipsing along Cas's neck, Dean illustrated his tale, "then it took the feathers and knitted them to hang from the loop."

"Then what happened?" Cas lift his head when Dean paused, the pleasant massage having stopped, and found him frowning with a pout. "Let me think, I'm trying to remember… There was a hawk."

"A hawk."

"Yes," Dean returned to his ministrations, causing the man to pillow his head back on Dean's chest with a content sigh. "The spider turned into a hawk, which had given the feathers."

"No wonder you were confused."

"Yeah, but then it spoke."

"Did it now?" Cas had, by some miracle, started to feel sleepy.

"I swear,” Dean grinned,warmed by the old story and the way Cas had entwined their fingers, thumb still brushing Dean's. ”The hawk explained that all the bad dreams would get caught in the web and get lost in the tangles, not able to find a way out, but be locked away in the bead, while the good dreams would flow freely, dancing and slipping and prancing and whatever through the holes, and sliding down the feathers, delivering the blessings of the good spirits onto the sleeper."

Cas was silent for a beat, suddenly serious. "I want that."

"I know. But there's more,” Dean lifted Cas's hand and kissed his knuckles. ”Then it took the thing and flew high up to the roof of the Earth and fastened it there, so that all evil would be trapped in it, and would never plague the world again."

"Obviously that didn't work too well."

Cued in by Cas's half-asleep grumble, Dean reached to shut the light and nudged Cas to give him room and wiggled down. Once they had maneuvered around so that Dean had Cas's head on his shoulder, Dean replied. "No. You're right. But apparently that wasn't the only one."

Half asleep, Castiel went for a kiss goodnight, and before long, the restful breathing of two men filled the room.

♥

"Dean?" Cas stood, mystified, at a market table in New Mexico, staring at a willow hoop covered with leather, sinew straining across it, with a bead in the dead center, dark feathers attached to hang from it. Grinning, Cas turned to Dean, sheer glee shining on his face; "Do you think this one would be magical?"

Whether it was the great hawk under whose wings they were protected once the dreamcatcher was appropriately hung wherever they happened to stay, or if it were the good spirits having found lovers who together could best even the most fearsome of evils, it mattered none, as they slept peacefully in a tangled mess of their own, blessedly rid of death and bone-white rictuses.

Right until the next time Dean's phone informed that it was time to get going.

Well rested.

 

**Author's Note:**

> The tale Dean tells is one of Native American origin, with his own flourish, obviously :)


End file.
